After she died, I wanted, more than the cameo brooch she’d pin
to every lapel, her box grater, that precursor, of sorts,
of all food processors, the rectangular metal box that shared
four different ways of slicing up the world. Her deeply veined
hands would set the grater on the kitchen table, waxed paper spread
to catch the shredded, sliced, slivered pieces of whatever foods
had needed whittling down. Carrots disappeared before my eyes,
returning when the grater lifted, curled adornments for a salad,
stewing vegetables for the brisket mother’d boil until it fell apart.
Even with a size that never spoke of domination among the kitchen tools,
the box grater was what I’d been wary of. I’d seen my mother’s
fingers bruised after a bout with it, entering the ring of preparation,
anticipating minor wounds. It was a tool I’d graduate to, fluent
in its metaled Braille, knowing which opening—oval, half-moon, plank—
translated best the food to recipe. My first abraded fingers felt
as if I’d been awarded medals, understanding that my
taming foods was one of many ways Mom was preparing me
for life, fingers raw and chafed that still presented a full hand.
[Originally published in Your Daily Poem, Nov '21]
Barbara Simmons, a Bostonian now in California, Wellesley College alumna, with an MA in The Writing Seminars, Johns Hopkins. A retired educator, she savours language to celebrate, remember, mourn, and understand. Her publications include Hartskill Review, Boston Accent, NewVerse News, Soul-Lit, Writing it Real, and the Journal of Expressive Writing. Website: Barbara Simmons - Poet - Offertories